Avenue Girl

Natasha’s apartment was an odd experiment in avant-garde decoration.
The artwork and furnishing of the faux-wealthy class jostled with group
house dynamics — stolen wooden spools for tables, thrift-store chic
curtains and an odd assortment of sexual aides dating from between 1750
and 1920. That was pure Natasha, right there. Monster dildos and
frightening torture devices displayed behind spotless glass cases,
lined up so they welcomed anyone standing at the door.

I was entertaining myself with a copy of Better Homes
from 1953 while Natasha, wearing only panties and house slippers,
hunched over the coffee table, her wildly painted eyes staring at a
bottle of Nantucket Nectars (Orange Tangerine). She’d been at it for
awhile, but I had long since learned that a silent Natasha was best
left undisturbed. All it took, sometimes, was the flick of a wrist, a
loud sigh, a cough, the tearing of a yellowed, ancient page of a
collectible woman’s magazine. Natasha would jerk to life and, if you
were unfortunate, attack with an animal instinct that hasn’t been
recorded in humans since before we were painting deer on the ceiling.

Regardless, she would launch into action on her own after a certain
period of time. Whenever she did so, there was no shaking the
despairing sense that clean living was about to end.

Ten silent minutes passed before she made a high pitched, strangely
alien sound in the back of her throat and grabbed the bottle of juice.
She paced back and forth for a bit, her perfectly cut figure erotic and
powerful as always. I let my eyes travel up her long, sculpted legs to
her perfect thighs. There, I lingered for a bit. Her purple panties
outlining sharp curves, powerful hills, toned flesh. Her stomach was
muscular, a pierced belly button that dated back to a younger, less
artistically-secure Natasha. Her breasts an exquisite handful, nipples
—

I saw the movement in a deeper level than ordinary consciousness and
threw myself off of the chair and to the floor with finely tuned
precision. The juice bottle exploded against the ceiling where my head
would have been, glass and Orange Tangerine covering me in what felt
like a tidal wave.

“Glass,” Natasha said wondrously when I opened my eyes and looked up at
her. She was staring at the wall. “Nothing is in glass bottles anymore.
Plastic and metal. Poisoning us, Nacho. That’s what it is. But glass…it
tastes better…and it empowers you. With a glass bottle, if I ever freak
out, all I need do is throw it at someone. An instant cure.”

“You’d sure hurt someone if you did that,” I said weakly.

“One would presume that I would be freaking out because of the person in question.” She replied.

I didn’t reply, busily checking myself for gaping wounds.

“Wouldn’t one!” Natasha shouted.

I jumped slightly, “Yes, I suppose one would.”

She nodded, “One would, wouldn’t one.” She cocked her head slightly to
the left, as if trying to hear something, then she rushed to her room
and returned with a thin, see-through T-shirt. She grabbed my arm,
“We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“A fancy restaurant.”

“Dressed like that?”

She stared at me, huge blue-grey eyes surrounded by the dark makeup,
“Shoes, shirt, service.” She whispered, pointing at her house slippers
and the t-shirt which, somehow, showed more of her body than when she
was naked.

“And…pants?”

“I’m a girl!” she screamed, letting go of my arm and walking through
the front door, “I don’t wear pants!” She wiggled her ass in my
direction, snapped the panties, then ran down the hallway in screaming
laughter.

It was an unusually warm night, so we left the car sidled up against
the dumpster behind the apartments and cut through the park to the
bustling restaurant district. A man in darkness lurched towards us, his
hand out, but something in the look Natasha threw at him sent him
walking stiffly backwards into his shadows. She took my hand and led me
along like I was an uncooperative dog, her head bent forward and her
face wrapped into a fierce, determined glare. Her shoulder length
blue-black hair jumped and twirled behind her as she pounded the
pavement with her delicate little feet.

The restaurant plan was thrown out in favor of a bar. Natasha had a
knack for locating the closed section of the bar before the hostess got
around to us and made it a point to insist violently that she be seated
at a booth in that section. Battling wits with a DC native hostess was
always a scene that drew many admirers. Natasha won slightly more than
half of the fights, and I believe it mostly depended on the geographic
origin of the hostess. A girl from the country would eventually falter
under the carefully orchestrated, tactical assault. City girls
possessed a keener sense of tactics and, on occasion, would anticipate
flanking maneuvers and other cruel tricks that women, namely Natasha,
were capable of developing in the heat of battle. Yankees were short on
defense and full of gleeful violence, which could usually stop
Natasha’s assaults. The more laid-back Southerners didn’t stand a
chance.

Tonight’s hostess was a 22 year old girl from Iowa named Amy. Natasha
is careful to glean this information quickly as she keeps a detailed
journal titled “Argumentative Response.” I could see tonight’s entry:

Amy, 22, blonde, C cup, Iowa. She’s going to be fat around the
thighs and neck in a few years. Failed argument during second round.
72.3 seconds away from sobbing and/or revealing a deep-seated fear of
her mother.

Natasha also noted various other observations — the meaning of any
jewelry present on her victim, the way the clothes were worn, the way
the hair looks, and various estimates on how many times the girl has
been sexually abused or had unwilling anal sex with a forceful
boyfriend.

I once challenged her, back before I knew better, and told her that
there was no way she could discern such things based on appearance and
argumentative method. Natasha, fuming, grabbed the hostess on our way
out the door and, in a low voice, gave her what can best be described
as the Hannibal Lector treatment. Needless to say, Natasha’s
observations as to the girl’s suffering were spot on.

I had been shaken by the revelation, but took it as a lesson never
again to question her. To be fair, Natasha was quite cordial to the
poor girl afterwards. With the exception of telling her that she
“needed to grow some balls and take charge of her life.”

As Amy seated us in a deserted section, a level above the main floor,
Natasha leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “We can fuck like rabbits
up here and still see everyone down there drinking away. Maybe you can
even spray cum over the banister.”

Amy paused, shaking, her eyes closed. She looked about ready to leap over the banister and plummet 20 feet to the floor below.

“Amy, darling,” Natasha hissed, “If my man is to cum at the volume I
expect, he’s going to need a gin and tonic. Hold the tonic.”

I turned, red faced, and whispered, “No, a little tonic,”

“No fucking tonic you fucking candy assed cum producer!” Natasha
screamed. Both Amy and I jumped and several of the bar patrons, far
below, glanced up.

I watched a tear spill out of Amy’s closed eye and fall down her cheek.

Natasha sighed, “I’ll have scotch. Talisker.”

Amy nodded and began walking briskly towards the stairs. Natasha rose
and screamed after her, “And bring the goddamn bottle, will you! None
of these goddamn little shot glasses! This is a single malt, bitch!
Only people with small cocks do those little shots!”

“You don’t have a cock,” I muttered.

She smiled wickedly and climbed over the table, her hand reaching down
between my legs as she stared deeply into my eyes, “I think you’re in
error, Mr. Sasha…” she began stroking me, then she grabbed my crotch
with her clawed fingers and hissed, “I could cut yours off any fucking
time I want to. Sleep softly, Sasha.”

She leapt off the table and leaned crazily against the banister,
staring down at everyone on the first level, “Sleep softly, boys!” she
screamed to a suddenly silent bar.